


a lot of things

by historyism



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Sugar Daddy, This is pretty ridiculous, no really, revoltingly light-hearted, set during s1 i guess?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 06:28:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8738335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/historyism/pseuds/historyism
Summary: It's rare that Hannibal makes a demand, or even a suggestion, so Will's pretty surprised one evening when Hannibal sets a plate of dinner in front of him and says, "I will buy you a suit."
"Um," says Will.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I POSTED THIS YEARS AGO BUT DELETED EVERYTHING I WROTE FOR SOME REASON LOL. The original work is even still up under orphan_account I think. I figured I'd post it again under my account. 
> 
> I'm pretty sure I wrote this before seasons 2 or 3 had aired yet, so it's set in S1 by default.
> 
> (Oh, and I'm looking at my original upload of this fic, and my author's note mentioned how I was in the process of writing my college application essays? I'm a college junior now, HOLY SHIT.)

—

One day, Will asks Hannibal if they're dating.

"If you would like to be," Hannibal says promptly, which Will supposes is a very Hannibal-ish type answer. After an excellent dinner and a glass of wine, he stumbles to the door; Hannibal hands him his jacket, takes his shoulders in his hands, and kisses him for a long time on the front porch before he leaves.

"I would like for us to be dating," Will tells him afterwards.

"All right," says Hannibal. His face looks exquisite in the yellow porch lights.

 

—

So, that's pretty much what Will expected from their relationship—a nice, easy distance. Hannibal would tend to his patients and Will to his dead. No clinginess, no pressure.

For a while, it's just what he imagined. He still sleeps, most nights, in his own house, surrounded by his dogs. He goes to work and dreams about rotting things and drinks gallons of black coffee to stay awake.

Hannibal does bring him breakfast every morning now, gourmet cooking in little plastic containers. He also touches him more, leading him in and out of rooms with a hand on his shoulder, on the small of his back. And now, when he goes to Hannibal's house, they make out on the sofa. Hannibal wears his jacket and vest while he makes out. Will likes it. It's quirky.

Afterwards, Hannibal tells him to take better care of his health—"Because I care about you," so gentle and earnest that Will feels guilty—and gives him a pack of chewable Flintstones vitamins.

 

—

For all that, it's rare that Hannibal makes a demand or even a suggestion, so Will's pretty surprised one evening when Hannibal sets a plate of dinner in front of him and says, "I will buy you a suit."

"Um," says Will. He spears a mouthful of liver with his fork. "I already have a suit."

He does too. It's an old brown one that he hasn't worn since college. It's hanging somewhere in the back of his closet, sad and limp and smelling faintly of dog. Hannibal somehow conveys the sentiment of wrinkling his nose without moving his face.

"I have seen it. It is not a suit. It is not appropriate."

"It's a suit. Just not a good one. And appropriate for what?" Will puts down his fork.    

"I am hosting a dinner party next Saturday." Hannibal is looking at him very neutrally, more neutrally than he usually looks. "You are going to come."

Will says, "I'm breaking up with you," and eats another bite of liver. It's delicious. Hannibal smiles at him, and his face does that thing where it looks exquisite again.

 

—

Hannibal doesn't ask for much, Will supposes—and in return, Hannibal seems to spend a significant portion of his time making meals for Will and worrying about his health and offering to talk whenever he wants to and making out with him on the sofa.

He lets Hannibal lead him to a clothing store he's never been in before.

"We'll buy one off the rack," Hannibal tells him firmly, "since there's no time to have one made. We will have it tailored, for now."

Will doesn't like that ' _for now'_ , thinks ominously that Hannibal might have a whole future wardrobe planned for him. But when Hannibal finally decides on the right suit, after half a dozen fittings, he has to admit that it's rather nice.

"Huh," he says, looking at himself in the mirror of the changing room. The suit is a dark blue, cut lean. It accentuates his figure, disguises his haggard gauntness and makes him seem merely lanky. His skin's still distressingly white and his hair's still a mess, but in the suit, he looks almost—elegant.

Hannibal stands behind him with an appraising eye. Casually proprietary, he reaches forward his hands and smoothes down Will's waist. "We'll have to get this pulled in," he says. "But it is a good fit, overall. What do you think, Will?"

Will meets his eyes in the mirror, and swallows. His Adam's apple bobs against the white starched collar. "It's okay, I guess," he says. Hannibal stares at his throat. Will follows his gaze, down to the blue tie around his neck.

"Good," Hannibal says finally, and he sounds amused. "We'll take this one then."  

 

—

Will holds the bag in his lap while Hannibal drives. Hannibal has the radio turned to something classical. Occasionally, he'll hum along to it, or even sing a few bars of it in German, which impressed Will terribly the first time. Bored, Will peers down into the bag and snags out the receipt.

He gradually becomes aware that he is making something of a choking noise.

"Will." Hannibal glances over at him. He looks slightly alarmed. "Will—are you all right? Would you like me to pull over?"

Will says calmly, "This suit. This suit costs more than I make in—in—um. A long time."

Hannibal's hands relax on the wheel, dismissive. "Oh, that's all. You don't need to worry about that. I told you that I would pay for everything."

"Yeah, but. You—you really shouldn't spend that much money."

"On you?"

"On anything. I mean, just for a suit. I could've worn the one I already have."

"I would break up with you," Hannibal says, completely deadpan. Will doesn't even talk back. He stares at the receipt and tries not to have a heart attack.

 

—

They do go the tailor's. Hannibal records Will's measurements on his iPhone and then tucks it back in his pocket. Will doesn't think anything of it.

 

—

Saturday morning, he watches Hannibal prepare the food. He's in his white apron, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. As he kneads dough, the muscles underneath his skin ripple. Will finds it disturbing how attractive he thinks this is. He hopes his thoughts don't show on his face.

"I hate parties."

Hannibal makes an amused little sound. "It will be good for you to step outside of your comfort zone for once. Human interaction is important for mental health."

"You're saying this as my psychiatrist?"

"As the person you are—" Hannibal pauses, seems to choose his words carefully. "—'dating'." He starts rolling the dough into little balls. "The guests will be here in a few hours. You may want to shower now."

Later, Hannibal dresses him in his new sleek suit in front of the mirror in his bathroom, tying his tie in a simple Windsor knot and tweaking his neatly combed hair. Finally, he spritzes a bit of his own cologne on Will's neck.

"You look lovely," he says.

"I'm not a girl," Will responds, but he's embarrassed to realize that he's a little pleased nonetheless. He looks at himself in the mirror, cleaned up and tasteful in a way he's never been before. He looks like a different person. 

 

—

The guests come trickling in around seven. The men are dressed in suits, like the one Hannibal bought for Will, and the women wear expensive clothes from European designers. Hannibal leads him around the room with a hand on his elbow. He introduces Will as his 'good friend'. Will shakes hands as cordially as he can and tries not to let his grimace show.

"Why,  _Hannibal—_ who is this?"

Hannibal smiles broadly, and turns them. "Ah, Mrs. Komeda. This is Will Graham. Will, may I introduce you—"

"Julia Komeda. It is a pleasure to meet you." She holds out her hand, as if for a kiss.

Will shakes it. "Hey," he says.

Julia throws back her head and laughs. When she stops laughing, she looks keenly to where Hannibal is touching Will, and does something like smirking, except more refined. Her eyes are sharply curious. Will shifts uneasily in his dress shoes.

She ends up cornering him later that evening on the couch, after they've all retired to the living room; she leans in close so that he can hear her voice over the low hum of conversation. Will's on his third drink. He notices distantly that he's a little tipsy.

After half an hour of small talk that Will can't even remember, she says, "So, how long have you and Hannibal been—well." She waves her hand dramatically in the air.

"Um."  Will looks down at his glass. "I'm not sure. It happened—gradually."

Julia nods. "Of course. Such a charming man. He has a rather insidious way about him, doesn't he? You don't even notice him doing it, but he can charm you entirely nonetheless—if he wants to."

Insidious, Will thinks. That's a very good way of describing Hannibal.

"I only ask because I've never seen you at any of his parties before. And I never miss a dinner party, not if Hannibal's cooking."

 "Yeah, well, I'm not really—one for social gatherings." Will takes a steadying sip of his drink. "I didn't even own a good suit. Hannibal, uh, bought me this."

" _Really_." Julia is looking at him now in a very meaningful way that unnerves him. He resettles himself on the sofa.

"Yeah," he says. "He's been really great. I mean, he does a lot of things for me."

"I'm sure."

Her mouth is smirking again, but in a friendly, avuncular sort of way. He's almost drunk enough to ask her about it, but at that moment, she looks over his head at someone behind him and smiles brightly. Presently, Will feels Hannibal's hand come down to rest on his shoulder.

"Ah, Hannibal," she says. "Will and I have been having the most  _delightful_  little chat."

 

—

That night, he sprawls himself blearily on Hannibal's bed, drunker than he's been in a long time, watching Hannibal undress himself.

"What did you think?" Hannibal asks, hanging his jacket up neatly in his closet.

"Eh. Fine." Will rolls onto his side."Okay. Food was good. People were okay. That lady—uh, what's-her-name in the red dress? She was nice."

"She is an old friend of mine." Hannibal's stripped to his crisp white shirt and pants now. He comes over to Will, leans slightly over him. He really is very tall, thinks Will. "I will help you take your suit off."

"Hm? Oh, yeah, I'm probably wrinkling it. Sorry." Will sits up—the world twists around him for a moment—and holds out his arms obediently as Hannibal slides the slippery material off his arms. "She kept smirking a lot. I think. I don't know."

When Hannibal tries to pull away to go hang his suit somewhere, Will tugs him back with fistfuls of his shirt, and crushes their mouths together. Hannibal's mouth opens easily. Will nips his lips, licks at his teeth, mutters something quiet and probably embarrassing. When he pulls back, Hannibal's hair is mussed. He still has Will's suit jacket in his hands.

Will falls asleep in Hannibal's bed. He wakes in the morning with a splitting headache and eats a Flintstones vitamin.

 

—

A few days later, he comes home to find a neat package on his kitchen table. He tears apart the packaging with a dull kitchen knife, revealing a whole stack of meticulously folded clothing items—by the feel of the fabric, they probably cost a good deal. He feels guilty just touching them.

Fumbling in his pocket, he fishes out his cell phone. Hannibal answers on the third ring, in an insufferably composed tone that Will will have to speak to him about.

"I take it that you have seen the clothes."

"What the hell, Hannibal?" says Will exasperatedly.  


	2. Chapter 2

—

Will learned, hazily, through a dry childhood of cheap sneakers and going without, that expensive things are inherently, inexplicably precious. Sitting at the kitchen table, he counts them: five shirts, three sweaters, three pairs of pants, two suit jackets, and, at the very bottom, a pair of brogues with intricate stitching along the seams.

They look like they cost enough to mortgage his house.

"Goddamn it, Hannibal," he mutters, scrapes the whole lot into a plastic Wal-Mart bag, and carries it to his bedroom.

It seems sacrilegious to dump the clothes on a shelf or in a drawer, like he does with his usual laundry, and he stands helplessly for a while, shuffling his feet. Finally, he gathers some hangers from under the bed, hangs the items in the back of his closet in a neat row, and calls it a day.

 

—

The next morning, Hannibal comes around with fluffy omelets.

"How much did it all cost?" Will asks, stirring the eggs around in his bowl. Nonchalantly, Hannibal tells him. Will opens his mouth and closes it multiple times.

"Christ," he says. "What. Christ. No, Hannibal, you—you can't—you can'tjust—buy me stuff like that."

Hannibal looks genuinely mystified. "Why?"

"What—what do you mean, 'why'?"

"I noticed that you could use some more clothes," he says reasonably, and serves himself some omelet. "So I got some for you." He looks at him shrewdly across the table. His eyes are like flat chips. "Are you uncomfortable about money, Will? Do you feel guilty about having nice things?"

Will kind of wants to punch him.

 

—

For weeks, he persists with his wrinkled shirts and musty dog-haired trousers.

Hannibal's taken to looking mildly disappointed at him when they meet. His version of a mildly disappointed face is not significantly different from his normal face though, and Will ignores it. It isn't until a month later when he forgets to do his laundry one Saturday that he even remembers the clothes.

He's late for a crime scene—some mangled corpse with his name on it—and he stands in front of his closet for a long moment, staring at the elegant, untouched fabrics.

They look like they would be very easily stained or torn. 

He glances at the clock. 

A plain sweater and a pair of pants are the most inconspicuous outfit, and he tugs them on, flinching at the fineness of the threads. He doesn't touch the brogues. His own beaten brown shoes are perfectly acceptable. They look like a fashion statement. He grabs his keys and his coffee mug on the way out, and avoids the mirror by the door.

"Whoa," says Jack when he sees him.

"Um," says Will.

"You look—"

"Yeah."

"You look—fancy." He raises and eyebrows and smirks. "Going on a date or something?"

"Yeah. I mean—no. No. Um." Will thinks about saying more, but he can't quite think of anything to say. He feels squirmy and uneasy and ashamed.

Jack leads him into a crime scene, looking back at him once or twice with a mystified expression on his face, like Will's grown a third head.

The corpse, at least, is predictably gruesome.

 

—

When Will goes to the bathroom to wash his hands afterwards, he sees himself in the tall mirror. His eyes are dim and glassy, his skin is papery, and his stubble's growing back in patches. But with the fine cream sweater on, loose around his neck, he looks almost different than he usually does—elegant. Not as much like a man falling apart.

He stares longer than it takes for the soap to rinse off, and when he catches himself doing it, he's mortified.

Hannibal calls him just as he slides into his parked car, tells him that he's bought two tickets to the opera. It's a gray kind of day. Will's tired of death.

 

—

That evening, he meets Alana at a restaurant. Her eyes grow very wide when she sees him.

"Will," she says.

"Alana."

She smiles warmly and sits back against the booth. "I'm sorry. I'm staring. You look very nice Will." The surprise in her voice is great enough that Will almost wonders if he should be offended. He ducks his head down and sits.

"Thanks," he says. "I forgot to do my laundry. So. You know."

"I see," Alana responds, sounding like she doesn't see at all. Will doesn't either, really. They sit for a moment. He fiddles with the ketchup bottle. The waiter comes around with their food—a sandwich for Will, and shrimp for Alana.

"Hannibal bought me tons of clothes," he says finally, sounding apologetic, watching Alana dip one of the shrimp in red sauce. "I mean. I didn't want him to. But he did. It cost—a lot. A lot. And—I'm not really experienced with dating, so I don't know, but is this—is this a normalthing that couples do for each other?"

Alana takes a thoughtful sip of her tea. "What, buying expensive clothes for each other? Uh—no? Maybe? I don't know. Some couples. Is he buying a lot of things for you?"

"Well. I mean. He's taking me to the opera."

"The opera."

"Yeah. But don't—look, don't say it like that."

"Like what?"

"Like it's the weirdest thing you've ever heard—me going to the opera." For some reason, his voice comes out sounding kind of discontented, even though he isn't. He prods at his sandwich and watches the cheese ooze onto the plate.

"It's not the weirdest thing I've ever heard," says Alana. Will steals one of her shrimp.

 

—

Hannibal dresses him up for it—shaves him and combs him and ties his tie for him, holds him in front of the mirror and makes him look—and they end up parking in one of the last open spots.

Fiddling with his white cuffs, Will says, "Why are you doing all of this?"

Hannibal takes his key from the ignition and tucks it in his pocket. The car stops with a quiet purr. "It would be easier for me to answer if I knew what you were talking about."

"You know what I'm talking about." Will waves his hands in front of him; Hannibal watches with his head titled, like he's examining a strange foreign ritual. "Buying me stuff. Taking me to the opera. Doing—stuff. It's not—necessary you know. None of this is—I mean, don't think this is something that you have to do because it isn't, really—I'm not, you know, really vain, or demanding, or, like—"

Hannibal reaches over the seat and carefully adjusts Will's tie. His strange mouth curves slightly up on the edges.

"Calm," he says quietly. "I never thought you were vain. I asked you to come to the opera with me because I thought you would enjoy it. I think it is customary for people who are 'dating' to go on dates."

"This—isn't the usual type of date I agree to."

Which is true. Before Hannibal, Will always thought he liked the meek and awkward types; people who fished and ate Hot Pockets and wore mismatched socks around the house. People who considered a date to be a movie night in the living room on a Saturday evening. Unpresumptuous folk.

Hannibal opens his car door. "Well," he says with easy simplicity. "If you didn't want me to take you to the opera, then why did you agree to it?"

It was better than sitting at home and going mad, Will doesn't say. "Um. I wanted to see something—nice. Something. Uh—"

"Living?"

Will chuckles flatly and lets himself be helped out of the car.

It is nice, anyway. The music is beautiful. He doesn't understand any of it.

When they break for intermission, he's introduced to more well-dressed, elegant people. They stare. He's sure Hannibal notices.

 

—

The kind of absurd thing is that when they get home, Hannibal doesn't even turn on the lights, just takes his elbows and pushes him a little roughly against the wall by the door. The lapels of their suits wrinkle. Will gets the breath knocked out of him. It's absurd because he's not used to being manhandled by Hannibal, of all people—didn't even think Hannibal was capable of anything but light, delicate touches (and later, he's going to look back on this thought and laugh and laugh).

Hannibal presses him there for a moment, skating a thumb up his neck. His eyes glitter in the dim yellow light from the street. He looks Will up and down, and there's something subtly strange about the intensity of his gaze.

"What?" Will says hoarsely. Hannibal strokes his hands down the front of Will's crisp white shirt. His palms are hot through the fabric.

"I like that you're wearing the things I gave you. That people see you wearing them." He sounds almost rough, in a way that he never is—it puzzles and excites Will at the same time. He breathes, staring down at Will's pulse point raptly, murmurs tenderly, "It makes me feel like I own you."

Which. Yeah. That. That is. Something.

"Uh," Will says, the gears clicking around in his head. He's not sure what expression is on his face. He's not sure if this is a normal thing to say for people who are dating. "That is fucking creepy," he breathes, perplexed, and then they're kissing. He's grabbing the front of Hannibal's shirt, mussing it, while Hannibal's hand smoothes down his pristine hair. 

 

—

Lying in bed later, he says, "I think that our relationship might be kind of weird."

 

—

For whatever reason, the end of it is that Will starts wearing Hannibal's ridiculous shirts and pants and sometimes even the cologne Hannibal sends him in a blue wrapping because it's there, and why not?

On Sunday, Hannibal takes him to an art museum. Will follows him through solemn, echoing rooms of paintings while Hannibal murmurs facts in his ear, and it's kind of boring, but it seems to make Hannibal happy. In the evening, he lets Hannibal direct him to a restaurant, where he teaches Will about utensil etiquette.

He's uneasy, despite himself, remembers his grandmother in her apron and bun and flour-dusted hands, telling him, "Greed is a sin, William—"

 

—

Zeller and Price raise their eyebrows almost at the same time when they see him at work, exchanging glances and knowing looks over his head that he doesn't understand.

 

—

One day, the woman who works at the coffee shop he stops by every morning writes her number on the bottom of his cup. He almost spills coffee over the steering wheel when he notices, can't remember the last time someone tried to hit on him. He supposes, in tailored trousers, he looks almost not-wrecked, like a put-together person.

Beverly comes up beside him while he's leaning against his car outside another yellow-taped little house, blowing on his coffee.

"So," she says cheerfully, "seems like a pretty good set up you've got there. How'd you do it anyway?"

He raises his eyebrows at her without looking up. "Do what?"

She waves her arms energetically. "You know. Getting Hannibal to be your sugar daddy."

A long moment of very silent silence passes.

"He's—you—I—um," Will says, when he manages to make noises come out of his mouth. "You—you think that Hannibal's my—sugar daddy?"

Beverly laughs. "Uh, yeah, you think he isn't? Didn't he buy you all of those clothes? And he keeps taking you out—kudos, by the way, but, um—Will? Hey, Will—why ... are you looking at me like that?"

He realizes vaguely that he might be panicking.

Well, his grandmother sniffs in his ear, this is what happens when you don't know your place, William.


End file.
